


Hold The Onions

by GSister



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Gen, Magnificent Seven AU: ATF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 01:52:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17458355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GSister/pseuds/GSister
Summary: Beware old family remedies...





	Hold The Onions

**Author's Note:**

> These Characters do not belong to me (but if they did, I'D share… probably.) That said, this story was written purely for self entertainment and no money is being made, has changed hands, or has been paid out for the contents therein. Special thanks to my Beta "S", (who has threatened me with a Death by Larabee-Glare if I mention her by more than that). She is so good at finding and plugging plot holes that I never notice until she points out – if any are left it’s purely my fault. And it's totally S’s fault that I got into fan fiction in the first place. Without her encouragement (nagging), constructive criticism, and long talks on characterization, I might still be writing pathetically depressing purple poetry, and what prose I did write, would NEVER be finished… 
> 
> ~Constructive Criticism will be graciously accepted  
> ~Flames will be used to toast marshmallows

J.D. hung up the phone and turned to his roommate. "Bad news. That was Nate. There's been some kind of hang up with your prescription. The pharmacist has to call your doctor to get it straightened out."

Buck gave a wheezy cough from where he was ensconced against the couch cushions under a pile of quilts. He scowled at the TV remote that he was half heartedly using to flip channels. "What's so hard about an antibiotic and a cough syrup?" he asked, his voice made deeper by the congestion in his lungs. Of all the times to get laid low with bronchitis, now was not the one that he'd pick. And if they weren't careful, he'd end up giving it to J.D. The sooner he started the antibiotic, the better he'd feel – not just physically. It might already be too late for that, anyway. His chest clenched with another cough. Damn it! This cough was the worst! He was hacking hard enough to blow down a house of sticks, pigs and all, but he just couldn't seem to bring any of the gunk up out of his lungs. He just couldn't get a deep enough breath under the crud to cough it up. 

"Buck, you're going to pop a rib if we don't do something about that cough," J.D. worried. 

"What would you suggest, Kid?" Buck asked, covering his mouth just in time to capture another chest stabbing cough.

J.D. hesitated a moment, abruptly coming to a decision as he watched his friend fold under the force of another cough. "Don't move. I'll be right back."

Buck listened as his roommate rattled dishes in the kitchen; the light thumps of cabinet doors a strange counter-point to the murmurs of J.D. talking to himself as he searched for whatever it was he was looking for. It was the unmistakable clink of glass bottles in the refrigerator that made him sit up and twist toward the kitchen, trying to see just what the computer expert was getting into. "J.D.? What the heck are you looking for, Kid?"

"You'll see in a minute, Buck," came the muffled reply. "It's an old family recipe. You know how my mother and I didn't have a lot of money when I was growing up, right?" 

The explanation grew louder as J.D. headed back into the living room, juggling a bowl and various ingredients, the most recognizable to Buck at a quick glance being… spicy brown mustard? Buck couldn't be sure, but he thought maybe the congestion in his lungs was somehow interfering with his brain now. Must be the lack of oxygen…

"Well," J.D. was still explaining as he dropped his arm load on the already crowded coffee table, "sometimes we didn't have the money for doctors or medicines and stuff, and one of us would get a bad cold. My mother used to swear by her Great, Great, Great Grandma Colleen's Mustard Plaster. It's an old family remedy for easing chest colds. My ma used it on me lots of times." As he spoke, J.D. was opening jars and bottles and dumping ingredients into the bowl he had carried in from the kitchen. When he had judged the amounts just right, he started mixing the mess all together. 

“J.D., I got bronchitis, I’m not trying to get rid of freckles.”

“Huh?” 

Buck shook his head. Kids today – it’s like they never picked up a book before. “Did you leave any condiments in the kitchen?” 

“Oh, sure. There’s plenty of stuff in the fridge.” The arm swirling the wooden spoon picked up speed. 

“You’re going to get that all over the living room. Why aren’t you doing that in the kitchen, anyway?” Buck tried to sound stern. He had a sudden apprehensive memory of mixing mud pies with Adam Larabee. He resolved to himself that he was going to take the kid down if there was even the suspicion that he was going to fling the mess on the spoon at him. 

Buck looked at the yellow sludge in the bowl in J.D.'s arms, and back at J.D. His eyebrow was climbing in disbelief when the stench finally broke through the congestion in his nose. "Whew-ee! J.D., you ain't coming any closer to me with that!" he gagged, sparking another coughing marathon. "Stuff will probably kill me."

"Will not. It's perfectly safe. My ma used it on me lots of times!" he repeated.

"Well, there you go. Stuff probably stunted your growth."

"Buck, my father was jockey. I was never going to be very tall," J.D. said quietly in a wry voice.

"I thought you didn't know who your father was?" Buck was startled into asking. The question ended on a gasp as he tried to swallow a cough.

"I said I never knew my father. I never said I didn't know who he was. He died just before I was born."

"I'm sorry J.D."

J.D. shrugged. "Thanks. Anyway, if it helps, I'm taller now than my father was. So open your shirt." 

When Buck didn't move, J.D. gave him what Buck privately called the mini-Larabee glare. He sighed, and bared his chest. J.D. smeared the vile yellow-brown concoction on it, covering it with a hot, wet towel. J.D. smirked at him when he managed a slightly deeper breath. He could feel the mustard starting to sting his chest, but it was starting to open up his clogged nasal passages. He managed a deeper breath, and the smell hit him anew. 

"Damn it, J.D.! Now I smell like a god damn frankfurter!"

"Only fair, Buck," replied a voice behind them. They turned quickly to find that Chris had let himself in. "You’ve always been a bit of a Hot Dog…”


End file.
